For Lack of a Better Title
by kirby russell
Summary: Short little fics about how Mary Russell's books came about. 5th chapter finally up inside...
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Mary Russell are not mine. They are however, Laurie R. King's and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's, but I say that they really did exist. And therefore, they can't have copyrights on them. So really, I shouldn't be writing this disclaimer at all. But I will, because I like to avoid tangles with the authorities whenever I can. Unless I need something to entertain me. And then I'll drive them all mad. And I don't care what you say, I'm not crazy. *twitch*

For Lack of a Better Title

By: Kirby Russell

"Poetic slosh." He thought aloud, throwing the magazine down as if it were burning his hand. "An insult to English literature." 

"You hate it, I gather?" the figure on the couch called to him with amusement. 

"How could you tell?" he replied sardonically. He stood taking the magazine, and walked to her slowly. 

"What do they call this now? Surely not literature." He threw it into the flames of the dimming fire. She looked up at him and smiled. "If you don't mind me asking-" "I most likely will" he interrupted with a slight smile, but she continued as if he had not spoke. "-what was it that you were reading that offended you so greatly?" 

"My latest 'adventure'. Trash, all of it. Romantic trash, read only by those whose brains are half developed." He shook his head and sat down next to her, waving his hands to make his point. She gazed at him lovingly, but neither of them could sense the love, only the amusement. "He tries, Russell, I'll give him that. But really, what is the point of all those words? As they say, one word does the work of a dozen. Someone really should inform Watson." He sat down with tired resolve to the unoccupied spot next to her. 

She laughed, but said, "Really Holmes, they aren't that bad. And besides, I used to read those stories as well." He looked at her in mock horror. "Oh yes, it's true. I'm guilty as charged; they were really quite exciting too. Watson at least succeeded in capturing the thrill of your adventures. Reading one is almost as heart-pounding as actually being on one, and not half so tedious." She loved teasing him, and he played along with her. "Well if you like them so much, maybe you should take a cue from Watson, and start penning some of our adventures." Sarcasm dripped from his words, but she pretended to take them seriously. "Why Holmes! That's a fabulous idea! I never knew you had it in you. Why, I shall start tonight." She almost laughed at the astonished look on his face. She stood with fervor and turned to tower over him. Her eyes burned with what he mistook for determination, but was instead the love of a great prank. "But it shan't be a short story, oh no. Our adventures are much too long. It shall be a book. Entitled... oh blast, what _should the title be Holmes?" _

He continued to stare at her in a mix of repulsion and confusion until she burst out laughing. "Ah Holmes, if only I knew you were so easy to fool!" she exclaimed when she could catch her breath. He allowed himself a bark of laughter with her gay _(A/N: if you don't know the definition of this word that I am using, go buy a really thick dictionary and start hitting yourself on the head with it. I like this word in its true sense and I don't care about that damn political correctness.) peals of amusement; and her heart mysteriously felt lighter, as if that had been her purpose all along. Pushing the silly thought out of her mind, she threw herself back down next to him, and exclaimed, "Oh I know! I shall entitle it: 'The Baker Street Apprentice'. Has a nice ring to it." _

"But you overlooked the fact that I don't reside in Baker Street anymore, Russell. Please, your lack of logic is disheartening."

"Okay, not that then. What about..." she thought hard about the things they had shared over the years. "Somehow I don't think 'The Multiple Near-Death experiences of Sherlock Holmes and Mary Russell' would sell very many copies." "No," he murmured, now distracted by a stray bee that had landed on his forearm. She looked at him in his frozen position, wondering what it was that drew her to this odd man. "Hhmmm." She said out loud, trying to gather her thoughts around her. He toyed with the wings of the bee, using his long, lanky fingers to tickle the edges of the gossamer appendage. As it flew idly away, she murmured, "The Beekeepers Apprentice." He made a soft sound in approval, and relit his pipe. Knowing now he was too far into a train of thought to talk, she sighed and slowly stretched her legs out, so that her feet just barely touched his side. He stiffened at her movement, then slowly relaxed and let his legs unbend as well. She looked up at him sharply, not knowing if he was mocking her. But she saw his tired smile, and grinned in return. Silence filled the room, and, not knowing she occupied his thoughts as often as he did hers, she went back to her book once more.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or Mary Russell. 

A/N: When you read this, remember that Mary has to PMS sometimes. It's just one of those days for her (and me!! :-X). Plus, I wanted to show the side of Holmes that understands neither women nor the finer points of empathy. Sorry for the cat fighting. Hiss!

For Lack of a Better Title

By: Kirby Russell

He sat idly, pretending to edit his new pamphlet, "Spirit Gum: Uses in Modern Detective Work." Glancing at the clock for the fifth time within the minute, he wondered where she was. "Late again," he thought aloud. "Humph. Not surprising. Women." 

"What about them? Have you finally realized that we are the superior race?" A voice from behind him asked merrily. He smiled at the most welcome voice, then quickly hid it with his usual sarcastic smirk.

"No, just musing about their habits of being utterly unable to read the time." She grinned at him as he stood to face her.

"Our clocks are the ones at fault; they give us the wrong time and cannot be fixed. And," she added, "Our clocks were made by males. So really, it's not women who are late; it is men who are incompetent." He shook his head, letting her win the round of wits. He watched as her favourite chair sagged, and her eyes shut with weary resignation. Remembering the absence of his housekeeper, he asked: "Tea, Russell? Or something stronger perhaps?" He could sense she was leaning towards the latter, so he raised an eyebrow when she replied,

"Just tea thanks Holmes." He opened his mouth to question her, but when she opened her eyes to hear what he had to say, he was gone.

When he returned, tray balanced in hand, she was sitting and skimming his booklet. He set the tea in front of her and stood over her shoulder, and in silent pride read with her while she finished. Once she set it down, she picked up her tea calmly. He, equally calm, waited for her to comment. Finally, she looked at him and said quite bluntly:

"Well Holmes I have to say, not your best booklet by far. The connections between paragraphs are arduous at best, and your tendency for alliteration is much overdone. And that bit about dressing as an Italian, with your urgent need for a mustache?  Not necessary, and I must admit your storytelling nearly bored me to sleep. But," she paused to observe his countenance _almost_ under control, "It certainly does rival your other pamphlet about different tire tracks. In my opinion, this piece is much more helpful, not to mention understandable." His left eye twitched a few more times before he finally responded with such calm that only a fool would not be concerned.

"Russell, you-" He stopped himself abruptly, remembering something, then started over, stumbling through his clenched jaw. "Well, Russell, that's- That is certainly your opinion. I- I thank you for your honest point of view." 

She couldn't help herself. "Holmes, you sound like you just swallowed a glass of petrol." He scowled at her, more hurt than angry, which upset her more than his eaten words would have. 

"Holmes, I apologize. I was too harsh. I merely-" He cut her off mid sentence with the sharp flourish of a hand. "Russell, if I really cared, you would be informed. However," he added as he sat once again, rigid and upright as though he was physically irritated by this topic of conversation, "I _would like to know why you think you are a novelist now." _

"Oh, no cheap romantic _novelist_, Holmes. Biographer." She said with pleasure evident in her voice. "Your biographer." His eyes widened only the smallest increment, but she noticed. 

"It will be a bestseller, Holmes, I know it! Why, with a title like "The Beekeepers Apprentice," and Sherlock Holmes' partner, not lackey, writing it, how could it not be one? I even thought of a sub-title for you, in case-" she stopped, realizing she might've gone too far this time. Not only was his left eye twitching, but his knuckles were a very unpleasant colour, as were his cheeks. 

"Russell." His voice was deadly calm, more frightening than ever before. "What sub-title could you _possibly_ think of to lessen the blow of this preposterous intention? Not only do you _insist on studying that mind-numbing religious slosh, but now of all insults you decide to follow in Watson's path, why it's... it's... Russell, of all the tremendously stupid things I've seen or heard this has to exceed them all!" He paused only to catch his breath. The venom in his words had heightened them, and now he stood above her, shouting in one of his rare bursts of passion. She would be secretly glad, later, to know that even now she could get a rise out of him, and that he cared enough about her to show some emotion besides indifference. But just now, she sat shrinking from the impassioned figure above her. _

"Do you know, Russell, that I actually held hope for you? That you would not turn out a bumbling fool like the others in your generation, wishy-washy and wasting your talent. Well, hope springs eternal, I suppose. Let us _hope this is just a phase." His voice had evened out, but he grew as she shrank, trying to convince the chair to envelope her. "Ho," He laughed out as a thought struck him, "To think that you were going to write of our 'adventures' as if you thought the ignoramus public would actually enjoy let alone understand them! It's pure comedy." Finally done, he scooped up his pamphlet and sat at his desk, glaring at it. _

"Drink your tea, Russell." He demanded over his shoulder. "And when you've finally come to your senses, alert me."

She looked at her cold tea, not in the least what she needed at the moment, so she stood. Making sure to make noise enough for even the ever-ignoring Sherlock Holmes to turn, she made towards the kitchen. Then, turning back to look at the back of him whom she didn't care to disappoint, murmured: 

"With Some Observations on the Queen. That's the sub-title, if it makes the difference." And slipped through the door.

Holmes, watching her till the last, smiled slightly and sighed when she was just out of earshot: "It makes all the difference, Russ."

And when she returned with their brandy, she noticed the acceptance and, dare she say, encouragement in his eyes, and she did not bring up her newly appointed position again.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or Mary Russell. 

A/N: the ~~~ represents a change in the P.O.V. This chappie is a bit more serious. Apologies, and I promise next time will be lighthearted as always.

For Lack of a Better Title

By: Kirby Russell

She sat writing furiously, as though the words in her mind would burn her if they stayed there a minute longer. 

~~~

He stood in the doorway, watching the lanky gir- no, woman now. She had matured into a woman, one with poise and intelligence no less. And even as he denied it, it loomed in the back of his mind. He wondered if she had even noticed his discomfort. 'No.' he thought. 'Her weakness always was reading a blank face.' And in times of great self doubt, he would add: 'But this is not a blank face; this is mine.' Yet for all that, he still trusted her; times were she would surprise him and even best him. He had the casebooks and she the scars to prove it. 

Smiling in memory, he remembered one of the cases they had worked on. It was during their journey in France. The adrenaline had been pumping through their veins so rapidly that when they finally caught the fiend, he turned to her and said, "Well Russell, a night of dancing and drinking would be fitting, would it not?" Both still high off the adrenaline, the nearest tavern seemed very welcoming. He remembered that night perfectly; sometimes the ability of his brilliant psyche to remember every last detail was not so much of a curse.

He shook himself to rid his mind of his idealistic musings. He reprimanded himself for 'going soft', as she would say. He gazed at her again, a softness in his eyes that only she might have noticed. Maybe, he thought, going soft with Russell around wouldn't be so ghastly...

~~~

She was still scribbling in her unreadable shorthand, oblivious to her watcher. He was out on another case, one that she hadn't been told about but obviously knew of. Just how daft did he really think she was? No matter. By the time he returned, she would be finished with the second chapter. She was determined to have his approval. Knowing what he thought about Watson's stories, she would have to double her effort in her writing. It had to portray the _real Holmes, but the analytic side would be brilliant as well._

She straightened her back, hearing it crack with proof that she'd been bent over far too long. Grinning suddenly, she wondered what he would say when she showed him the fruits of her labor. It had been a joke at first, but after that near brush with a bullet through the side, among other things, she decided writing their adventures might be a good idea. After all, in this line of profession... The grin dead on her face but its shadow still remaining, she tried to relax. Staring at the black backs of her eyelids, she thought of their shared cases, and how intimately they knew death.

~~~

She was working on something important, he realized, and knew that he probably would not approve. Moving slightly to walk into the room and bite out another sarcastic comment, he froze suddenly. He noticed her tense, then lean back and shut her eyes almost forcefully. Being who he was, he deduced she was thinking about their last case. That dog of a man, Sonkin, had fired two warning shots, which weren't so much warning as they were severe threats. After years of dealing with such bullying of his life, he became used to the prospect of death. Yet what he had not anticipated was caring so much about the life of another. The thought of Russell hurt, or in his more macabre moments: dead, had his rooms filled with pipe smoke and a stony face or avoidance for days. He would never show how deeply he cared; weakness was his greatest fear. Yet he also feared that by the time he finally let his true emotions show, it would be seconds too late... And he would be alone and betrayed again.

~~~

Her eyes snapped open. Turning to face the direction from which the noise came, the Holmes she saw staring at her was far from the one whom was her familiar. His face was wrought with a peculiar emotion; if it was anyone besides him she would have sworn it was torment. Instead she decided on guilt for not telling her about the case. 

"Back so soon? I would have expected at least another day. Or did you find out about Ms. Heffinger before you saw the body?"

Expecting some comment of that sort from her, he did not respond. Instead he continued to stare at her thoughtfully. Used to this, she merely turned back to shove her papers into their rucksack.

"Walk with me, Russell." He said suddenly. She smiled, and then wiped the silly expression off her face as she replied: 

"Alright, Holmes. I have something to show you anyhow."

He proffered an arm, and together they ambled out to check on the bees, bickering all the way.

Kirby: If you want to see more stories, _please_ tell me. Otherwise I'll just keep them in my head. I have no idea how I'm doing, and I need advice. Thanks to Anna who keeps reviewing!


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or Mary Russell. 

A/N: I finally went fishing the other day, and came back not with fish sticks but with an editor. Although I was disappointed (I really wanted to eat that night), I think everything worked out for the best. So Thanks to Peter without whom I wouldn't have written this chapter but instead would be gnawing on fish sticks.

For Lack of a Better Title

By: Kirby Russell

That night, Mother Nature brought her circus side show for them to watch. She danced with scarves across the sky; orange and red intertwined in her right hand while her left spun purples and yellows. She danced around her orange orb in a scintillating spectacle, stunning her audience of two. The elder of her captive viewers sat in calm silence, fingers forming a steeple and eyelids drooping lazily. The younger of the two lay wide eyed at the vagabond performance. Even Mrs. Hudson's Earl Grey tea could not compete with this dance.

He turned his head to her and said quietly, awkwardly: "Quite a sunset, don't you agree Russell?" 

"Like none I've ever seen, Holmes. It's so moving. The colours tease the eyes... taking the whole thing in is like- oh..., blast, the words refuse to come to me." He looked at her sharply, searching for signs of too much honey wine. She grinned back at him, knowing the exact phrase reverberating in his skull. 

"No, I have not gone soft on you, Holmes. No need to worry. I am merely trying to fulfill my role as your new biographer."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, his eyes steeled and his mouth lost all colour as he pressed his lips together. 

"Need we talk of that, Russell? Surely you realize that you have just ruined the mood?" She grinned wider as he added:

"And I suppose you have every intention of following-" 

"Yes, I do have _every_ intention. Actually, I have the first two chapters right here." She held up a well-worn manuscript, before it was snatched from her fingers. Giving her a dubious look, he turned away and started reading. She found sitting stonily impossible, so she stood to wander. Not more than ten feet away though, she stopped when she thought she heard a slight snort from her companion. She turned around, not daring to hope, and saw his grey eyes coloured with emotion.

She walked slowly back to her chair and grabbed the back, looking unsurely at the brown hairs of Holmes's head. She trembled slightly, wishing she could read his cold mind. Down in a far off corner of her being she felt a powerful and shocking wave of caring, and that part of her wanted very badly for Holmes to say something, anything. She came back to her senses, mentally slapping herself. Holmes was pompous, sarcastic, arrogant... but still, that one corner of her nagged. What was wrong with her? She sat and glared impatiently at him to finish.

He tossed it on the table, arrogance and overbearing returning to his momentarily disorganized demeanor.

"Well, Holmes? What do you think of it? Questions or comments? [A/N: sorry, couldn't help myself]" She asked almost timidly, surprising herself again.

And again, he seemed almost to care for a moment as he prepared to render judgment on her manuscript. "It was... It... It follows the tradition set forth by your predecessor."

"So, er, nothing new then?" She asked, blindly hoping for some kind of mercy. But the logical side of her knew to expect the crushing words like a convict waits for the signal with the noose around his neck. She knew what was coming.

"Your style is inconsistent, not to mention horribly melodramatic. The plot is hardly concise, and you embellish much too often..." He paused and then asked: "Did you really find me that infuriating?"

"So, you liked it then?" she asked, ignoring his own question.

"Hah, I most certainly did _not_-" he was going to end there, but saw her rejected countenance and, taking questionable moral ground over a sobbing woman any day, continued, "-say that I _enjoyed it, exactly. All I said was that you-"_

"Did what any Grammar school child could do and nothing more." She mimicked an old teacher lecturing a student: "'10 for effort, Ms. Russell, and that's being very generous. But I'm going to have to give you 2 for structure and 0 for content.'  You hated it and you want to go throw it in the fire like Watson's pieces. That's all you had to say, Holmes." 

Before he could respond with some inept attempt at consoling, she stood up and briskly walked away, scrubbing her eyes violently. Holmes, confused, guilt-ridden and still holding the manuscript in his hand, watched her go with a growing sense of dread. Tomorrow was going to be awful. But tonight would be worse.

***

He sat alone in his study, the only light coming from the embers of the tired fire and the leaf in his pipe. As he occasionally breathed into the stem, the embers would flare up and illuminate his face in a reddish glow. 

His thought was on the earlier disaster. What he had said about her writing was mostly true. He was not one for fairytales and happily-ever-after. But her portrayal of him was so rough, so incredibly honest; he could not even be sure Watson had ever made the mistake of trying it. No, Watson had never come close. Yet that was what shook him to his very being. He was not at all comfortable with that kind of insight into the deepest reaches of his skull. He had seen that kind of probing before, in Moriarty. Just the thought of an equal made him feel something he still was not used to: fear. Could he handle another Moriarty? He didn't know.

The questions and doubts rattled around in his mind. Could he let down any of the barriers between him and the world that he had built since birth? And for one woman? Again, he did not know. It was an unfamiliar feeling; one that was frightening and painful. His heart was not nearly as hardened as his diamond mind. Yet even as he felt, his face was expressionless. A lifetime's practice of emotional numbness would not be discarded at the first sign of contest.

As the night trundled slowly to morn, he sat awake and silently pondered his new challenges. And as he flipped yet again through the much-handled manuscript, he wondered what new battles the next day would bring.

Kirby: ugh!  I promised fluffy happiness, but I delivered drama and tears. Next chappie, bunnies and poppies I swear!


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or Mary Russell.

A/N: This is an amazingly short chapter. I left the world of fanfiction for a long time, and coming back I find I cannot write as much as I used to. This is but a momentary issue. Until I fix it, I hope this will suffice.

For Lack of a Better Title

By: Kirby Russell

The violin almost played itself. His fingers played while his mind drifted and thought under the stimulation of the notes. It was a lesson is detachment as well as musical enhancement. He loved every string like a child; he smiled lovingly as the notes floated through the room. The melancholy melody suited him so much that Mrs. Hudson was convinced he had composed it himself. More sardonic this time than emotional, his smile appeared and faded. The bow caressed the strings and his nimble mind played on. His only mistake came from the loud shock of the kitchen door slamming shut.

"Holmes!"

The clanging and crash of one of the kitchen pots killed his train of musical thought completely. Sighing in protest of the world, he set the instrument down and reached for his pipe. The night, though rough on his conscience, flew by at a surprising speed. Of course, knowing the disaster that awaited him, no amount of time would be enough. But Sherlock Holmes was not one to shirk away, let alone admit to defeat. He resolved early on to let her declare her standing until she was exhausted, and then attack while she was vulnerable.  Yes, he had a plan and he knew—

"Holmes! Where— Oh. Hello." She came into the room and stopped abruptly. He could see the thoughts flittering, and smirked. Oh yes, he was to win this round.

"Good morning, Russell. You are well, I hope."

"Ah. Yes. I've just come to tell you-" she cleared her throat, and the first feeling of doubt made his stomach lurch.

"I'm leaving for Oxford today. Right now in fact. I need to... finish checking the sources on one of my essays." She cleared her throat again, and he knew even without his deducing abilities it was a lie.

"I won't be coming back until December." She looked at him, and for once his ability to read emotions vanished. He could only focus on his own.

"Russ, it's only June. Surely—"

"No, I need all the time. Well... good-bye." He only stared at her as she turned and walked out the door. He closed his eyes in utter confusion and defeat as he listened to her walk further away.

In retrospect, that was the first time he felt for her as more than a student. He pinpointed that moment, and resented every second of it.


End file.
